


Circling Back

by nwspaprtaxis, quickreaver



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Batcave, Common Cold, Gen, Gorgeous Art, Hunter Retirement, Hurt/Comfort, Men of Letters, Men of Letters Bunker, Post Series, Protective Dean Winchester, Retirement, Sick Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 21:44:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/pseuds/nwspaprtaxis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/quickreaver/pseuds/quickreaver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forty-frigging-years-old and Sam is a moron who still regresses to about five when he gets sick. Dean is an awesome big brother who might have fucked-up knees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Circling Back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kettle_o_fish](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=kettle_o_fish).



> **_A/N:_** This is my fill for **kettle_o_fish** ’s [Prompt](http://glovered.livejournal.com/99804.html?thread=1315548#t1315548) at **glovered** 's [Batcave Fic and Art Comment Fest](http://glovered.livejournal.com/99804.html) which went thusly: _Kevin comes through and they close the gates of Hell, but that doesn’t mean a hunter’s work is done — there are still monsters to kill and ghosts to put to rest. Sam embraces the Men of Letters legacy and together, Sam and Dean cultivate a new network of scholars and hunters. The Batcave is once again the nerve center in the fight against evil, with Sam as it’s primary caretaker and Dean heading up a new generation of MoL affiliated hunters. Years later, Dean’s on the road following a lead when he gets a call from one of Sam’s apprentices (Someone we know? Or an OC? Whatevs.) and hightails it back to the Batcave because whoever called made it sound like Sam was really sick and he wouldn’t stay in bed because he's a workaholic pain in the ass and they didn’t know what else to do and they were worried and could he please help? Sam/Dean or SamandDean._ I hope this one fills the bill — even though it’s probably *way* less Sam-centric than **kettle_o_fish** intended when she prompted this. HAPPY BIRTHDAY ANYWAYS, SWEETIE!
> 
> AU sometime in the near-distant future, post-Season Eight, in which the boys are in their forties and there are vague references to _8x13 EVERYBODY HATES HITLER_ and _8x14 TRIAL AND ERROR_.
> 
> Special thanks to: **monicawoe** for the first round beta’ing and **quickreaver** for helping me hammer this into shape and making pretty pretty [accompanying art](http://quickreaver.livejournal.com/63090.html) for it! AND IT IS GORGEOUS!!! GO LEAVE LOVE! NOW! I'll be here... staring at it...
> 
>  ** _Disclaimer:_** Do not own. Am not making a profit. Just simply having fun with their psyches and returning them slightly more battered to Kripke and Co. and all that Yada Yada.

Dean doesn’t stray far anymore, these days. Any hunt more than a couple hundred miles away, he hands off to someone else.

There’s a bunch of fresh blood now, all bushy-tailed and bright-eyed to save people and so, so eager to save the world despite his warnings — they remind him of the way he used to be, before everything. He just hopes they won’t drop like flies the way his family did in that five-year span a while ago.

Sam’s still around, though, permanently ensconced in the Batcave surrounded by ancient manuscripts and a library far surpassing the one Bobby’d had. Occasionally he leaves messages on Dean’s cell that sound like he’s on the brink of spontaneous orgasm and it’s all the books.

He’d stick even closer but Baby’s made for the road and he’s too restless without the endless driving to shut off his thoughts and push him to the brink of exhaustion. Still, it’s nice having a home base, someplace to circle back to when he needs it. Especially with his body being as fucked as it is. He’s starting to feel his age, older even, with a bad back and screwed-up knees that ache when it rains and make it hard to get up in the mornings. These days, the long hours in the car make his ass go numb and his fingers tingle. He figures he’s staring straight at forced retirement sometime in the very near future, but he isn’t relishing the thought of being restrained by four walls, even if it’s an awesome Batcave with badass swords and a fully equipped armory.

Sam understands though, and his younger brother’s always sure to keep his bed fixed up with clean, soft sheets, ready to be slept in, and to keep the walkway and entryway swept clear no matter the weather or time of the year, just in case. He’s staggered in, bloody and beaten to hell a few times and Sam’s been there to catch him and tape him up, bitchfacing and grumbling all the while. As far as he’s concerned, it could be worse. It has been worse. Now, it’s the best of both worlds.

He rolls his shoulders and flexes numbing fingers as he stares out at the open road. He’s the only one for miles around. The car rumbles beneath him, eating asphalt, and he glances over to the side. It still doesn’t feel right without his freakishly ginormous little brother stuffed in the passenger seat, but Sam’s happy these days — happier than he’s ever been — and as far as Dean’s concerned, his brother has earned it.

His cell phone buzzes and he fishes it up from the seat beside him, swiping his thumb across the glass and pressing the green button, the word _BATCAVE_ popping white against the black background. “’Lo,” he says, squinting into the sun.

“Dean?” The female voice on the other end is tentative and uncertain. There’s a pause and she exhales nervously.

“Stacy?” Confusion, hard-edged panic bleeds into his voice. Sam’s intern is scary-smart, but young and inexperienced; she’s new to the supernatural, thrust suddenly into their world when her boyfriend turned out to be a zombie. She hadn't received any formal training and had been studying with Sam for less than a year. And he left Sam alone with her. He mutters an expletive under his breath. “What are you…? Is…?”

“It’s Sam,” Stacy blurts out. “He’s been running a fever over a hundred and two for the past several days and he won’t sleep and he won’t leave the library and won’t let me do anything. He almost passed out on the way to the library from the bathroom just now and won’t…” Her words tumble over one another, high and tight like she’s trying not to cry. “I tried, Dean…” There’s a soft hiccup that he suspects is really a sob. “Can…”

“Hey,” he cuts her off, his voice level and — he hopes — soothing. “Hey. It’s okay. Listen to me. It’s okay. Take a deep breath. You’re doing awesome. Sam’s just a moron who doesn’t know when to quit. I’m on my way, okay?” he glances at his wristwatch. “Give me three hours.” He exhales. “Just sit tight and, I don’t know, give him some tea drugged up with Nyquil or whatever.”

There’s a sniffle, an odd wet hiccup that sounds a little like a gasp and then, “Okay.” A pause. “I’m sorry to bother you, Dean, I know the rule…”

It still makes him squirm, how much respect he and Sam both got from the Newbies. Like they were elders, or something. He isn’t old enough to be a _Sir_ or anyone’s _Uncle Dean_ , thank you very much.

“Hey,” Dean’s tone softens as he pins his phone to his ear with his shoulder. He makes a sharp U-turn and begins heading in the opposite direction. “Don’t worry about it.” He hesitates, the silence stretching uncomfortably. Then: “Hey, look, can you put Sam on the line?”

A moment later there’s an earful of congested little brother. “Deed?”

“Hey, Sammy,” he says brightly.

“’Tiz Sab.” The voice is grumpy. There’s a deep sniff and Dean winces.

“Dude,” he grouses, “you’re almost forty. Blow your damn nose. We are not five. Better out than in, remember?” He waits a beat, hears some snuffling and muffled honking. “Feel better?”

“Fugg off.” Sam sounds tired and miserable.

“I love you too, princess. Now, how about you put that book down like a good boy, take Tylenol or whatever shit Stacy gives you, and sleep that thing off? The book will still be there when you wake up and I’ll be home in a couple hours.” Dean pulls the phone from his ear and ends the call before Sam can come up with some half-assed, snot-ridden, consonant-mangled retort, smiling to himself.

He flips through his mental atlas of back roads and minor highways, going through all the various routes, before settling on the fastest and most direct one. Baby hums in agreement as he pushes his foot down on the gas just a little harder.

He makes it to the bunker in just a little over two hours, even with a break for gas, a piss, and some Slim Jims. The path and concrete stoop are, as he expected, clear of leaves and he smiles despite himself. _It’s good to be home_. Stacy opens the door and lets him in before he even has time to knock or fish out his keys. He steps in, the tan welcome mat just inside the front door demanding him to WIPE! He obeys the order, scraping the soles of his boots over the rough surface, dislodging any grave dirt before being led to the library.

Stacy lingers in the doorway as Dean continues his way to the large table in the middle of the room, stopping by his brother’s shoulder. Sam’s wearing the Dead Guy’s Robe and is slumped over a book, head pillowed on one arm, glasses on the table. He raises his face a fraction, smears his nose against the soft terrycloth fabric with a soggy snuffle and settles his sweaty forehead back down. There are open books strewn all over the surface of the table.

“All right, Sasquatch,” Dean says, his voice deliberately loud in the quiet. “Bed.” He closes the gap between them.

Sam startles in surprise, watery red-rimmed eyes widening and then narrowing in confusion. His face is pale with bright smears of color high on his cheekbones. “Deed…? Wh-wha’…?” The rest of whatever he intended to say dissolves into wet crackling hacks and Dean winces as Sam stifles his coughing with the crook of his elbow. _At least he isn’t spraying his germs all over every surface in a ten-foot radius_.

“In the flesh. You scared your PA by being a sick, workaholic dumbass. And why the hell are you wearing my bathrobe?”

Sam blinks up at him in wide-eyed confusion, shivering slightly. He glances down, takes in the yards of gray fabric hanging off him in soft folds. “Oh. Oh, Sorry? Yoo wa’ it?”

“No. No, I’m good. Why don't you wear it for now and when you’re better, you can run it through the wash on the hot cycle, say, a couple hundred times the next time you do laundry and we’re good, okay?” Dean struggles to hide his disgust at the prospect of wearing the germ-ridden thing. “You’re like… some kind of disease vector right now.”

Sam nods, raises his forearm, smears the cuff under his nose and blinks up at Dean.

Dean lets out a long-suffering exhale and wraps both of his hands around Sam’s biceps and pulls, relieved when Sam rises with his tug. “C’mon,” he says. “Bed. No more books.”

Sam’s eyes go worried and then crestfallen.

“You’re a moron, Sam. Don’t look at me like I just ran over your puppy,” Dean snaps. “It’s just until you’re better. C’mon, I’ll even make you a deal: you make it all the way to bed and I’ll bring you any book you want, okay?” He nudges Sam with his shoulder and propels them out of the library. Sam stumbles once on the stairway but steadies, leans into Dean. “Hey,” Dean cajoles gently, wincing as he locks up his legs so they both don’t crash to the floor. “Bum knees here. You don’t want to take both of us down, d’ya?” He thumps Sam on the back.

Sam rights himself, pulls some of his weight off Dean, and Dean can feel his joints creak with the release, like an old car whose suspension has gone to shit.

When they turn into Sam’s bedroom, Dean sends up a silent, fervent thank you to Stacy for turning down the covers and arranging the pillows. He eases Sam onto the bed where Sam promptly rolls onto his side and curls up, drawing up long limbs and folding himself up until he’s as compact as he can get. He’s still ridiculously huge and Dean wonders why his baby brother even tries. He gives the bathrobe a token tug and when Sam doesn’t move to remove it, drags the covers over Sam’s shoulder and pats him.

“You good?” He asks, mentally cataloging the bottle of Gatorade and blister packet of sinus pills Stacy had thoughtfully set out on the bedside table. He moves the box of Kleenex onto a corner of the mattress, in easy reach of Sam.

Sam nods, turns his face farther into the pillow to block out the light. _Headache, then_ , Dean thinks as he takes in the patch of silver at Sam’s temple. It’s definitely more prominent than the last time he was home. It’s been happening to them both, as much as he wants to deny it. His own is looking lighter these days, more gray appearing among the brown.

He’s turning to go when Sam’s voice comes from behind him.

“Y’godda be here in da mording?”

“Yeah, Sam,” Dean pauses with his hand on the doorknob, trying hard not to grin at Sam’s packed nose and bleary eyes and, damn if he doesn’t feel a stupid, sappy spot of warmth swell in his belly. “I’ll be here. Not going anywhere. Just gonna get you that book I promised.”

He slips into the hallway, almost crashing into Stacy.

“Get some sleep,” he tells her. “You earned it. I got it from here.”

Stacy nods and slips off down the corridor they’d set up as a dormitory of sorts while he goes back downstairs to the library, picks up the book Sam was slobbering over, and carries it back into Sam’s room.

Sam’s on his back, mouth open and snoring like a power saw. There’s a shiny drool trail from the corner of his mouth, sinking into the pillow beneath him.

With a grumble, Dean sets the book on the floor and drags the soft armchair closer to Sam’s bed, groaning as he lowers himself into it, knees protesting painfully. He flexes his fingers and thinks he should’ve taken ibuprofen as he toes off his boots and props his feet on Sam’s mattress stretching out in relief. He’ll sit here for a bit. _Just to make sure Sam doesn’t choke on his own spit…_

The next thing he knows, something cold is being pressed over his kneecaps and he blinks up at Stacy.

She stuffs a pillow between his head and the chair and smiles, her blonde hair loose and wavy around her shoulders. She looks a bit like Jo and the pain catches him unaware. He must’ve let it show because she whispers a “sorry” as she settles over him a worn, tattered patchwork quilt that some Men of Letters wife must’ve sewn. Her teeth flash brightly in the darkness and then she’s gone. The exhaustion and adrenaline of the past few days slam into him and the cool relief of the gel ice packs sink through the worn denim, coupled with the white-noise soundtrack of Sam’s cold-ridden snuffling catch him in their undertow.

He knows he should probably head back to his own bed and the mattress that remembers him and fits around his body in all the right places before he actually falls asleep. His back would thank him for it in the morning at any rate, but damn if this spot doesn’t feel like home, as though he’s found exactly where he wants to be. 


End file.
